


Hollow Man

by NicoleAnell



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-22
Updated: 2009-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-03 13:50:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NicoleAnell/pseuds/NicoleAnell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in early season five.  Spike is still ghostly.  Written for a 2003 holiday exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hollow Man

Wesley knew the entire Wolfram &amp; Hart building had been reconstructed in the last year, his office included. Everything was imported, brand-new, refurnished. The fact that his surroundings seemed as ancient and faded as the oldest books was therefore artificial. An atmosphere designed for him, with all the comforts of a place only he would feel comfortable in. The journal in front of him was bound in suede and its cream-colored pages had realistically jagged edges. His pen was silver-plated. His skin was rough. Wesley knew this, and the irony was not lost on him that the actual oldest thing inside the room might be sitting across from him with bleached hair and a leather coat, legs spread, eyes shining.

"I appreciate your cooperation in this," Wesley said, scribbling the date and time in the corner of the page, a second-nature reflex from all his fruitless studies.

Spike shrugged. "Got nothing better to do. I'll warn you, I don't generally get along well with Watcher types."

"I won't take it personally," Wesley answered, clicking the cap off his pen.

"Right. So what do we talk about now? History, life and times? Funny anecdotes about Angel's first opium high? Or do we skip to the whole champion thing?"

"I do have a few specific questions, but anything you could tell me might useful. Your early history is documented, but firsthand accounts are very often..." he trailed off at the sight of Spike's eyes glazing over. "You were born in London?"

"Yeah."

"William..."

There was a moment of silence before he caught on. "Oh. Uh, last name. Easley."

"Your relationship to your family?"

"I don't like that one," Spike announced bluntly. "Skip it."

"And to think, Angel said you wouldn't be helpful."

"Angel can hang himself. Skip it." His voice had reached a slightly higher pitch, and Wesley noticed his arms were crossing again, holding himself in the most painfully casual way possible.

"How does it...?" Wes ventured off the subject without meaning to. "Do you feel anything?"

"Not a blessed thing."

Wesley glanced down and pretended to write some notes to avoid staring. "Even the chair you're miraculously sitting in?" The comment was phrased more accusatory than he had intended, and it caused Spike to wince, a bit suspiciously and a bit like he wasn't quite sure a moment ago that he was sitting.

"You're the ones who are supposed to be explaining all this. If I knew what the hell was going on, I wouldn't still be here, would I? I'd find something better to do than walk through furniture and impart my ghostly wisdom."

"You're an incorporeal manifestation," Wesley said calmly. "Not a ghost."

"Close enough, and my point exactly."

"Let's move on. Your sire was-"

"Say, you know what I was thinking about? Maybe this'll go away on its own. It could be like I'm getting time off. Lovely month-or-so vacation from existence. It's not like I didn't earn a break. Did save the world, didn't I?"

"Yes, I believe you mentioned that once or twice."

"I'm sorry, is my being the reason you weren't killed in the latest apocalypse boring you? 'Cause personally, I think that's what you should be writing about." He snapped his fingers a few times in the direction of the pen. "Get to the souly period."

Wesley pointedly shut his book. "If you'd like to do this another time, I'm not in a hurry."

Spike forced a scoff. "Fine, not like I care. I was just trying to pass the time. Not much I can do with my not-a-ghostly self but talk to you wankers. And I thought I'd be nice and let Angel give you a project so you're not sitting up all night alphabetizing things."

"Were you this entertaining when you were evil?"

"I'm just saying. The reason we're both here right now is that more than one of us is a bit useless. And at least I've got an excuse, mate. What do you do here again?"

Wesley opened his mouth and then closed it, setting his jaw and looking downward. Spike grinned, satisfied silly with himself for touching a nerve. "Spike," Wesley said quietly, "This is not a project. This was my idea. I'm doing this because I assumed you'd be interested in talking about yourself... in talking to someone. Now I know this has been difficult for you, I understand that."

"I'll bet you can," Spike interjected.

"But if you'd rather complain about your condition or displace some anger, I _will_ find something to alphabetize, and you can wander the halls until morning."

Spike took a moment to consider it. "Or I can stay here and keep us looking busy?"

"Essentially."

His arms uncrossed slightly. "Well, that's what I said. But, you know, more sarcastically. So you'd do that thing with your mouth and nostrils." Wesley wordlessly picked up his book again. "Right. Okay, so London. I was on my way home from a party. Girl I was hot for didn't exactly return the favor, so I was a little depressed..."

\-------

Monday night, around 2:30, he walked through the office wall and said, "She's not gonna sleep with you, Percy."

Wesley was staring blankly at his shelves. "What?"

"You've been living here, working with Fred, how long? Years? I've known her three weeks and I know she's not gonna sleep with you. Thought I'd give you a heads-up."

Wesley looked over without reacting. "What are you doing here, Spike?"

"I live here. You?"

No answer. He turned back to his belongings. "I've forgotten something."

"Do you... think it's in that pencil holder?"

Wesley blinked. "Oh, no. I'm just- tired." He looked at a clock and rubbed his throat. "I should get home."

"Tired, yeah. This place'll do that to you," Spike nodded. "I guess. I don't get tired, actually. Because of the whole-" his tone changed mid-sentence, "Are you alright?"

"Yes," Wesley assured. "Yes, I'm fine."

"Just feeling the effects of a long, hard day?" Spike cracked a tentative smirk. "Watching a dozen Ally McEvils do all your research for you?"

Wes smiled sadly. "It's three dozen, at least. And some interns out of college."

"Which reminds me, next time you get out that diary thing, I have a Woodstock story." He followed Wesley through the door, trailing him down the hallway. "So tell me, because I was wondering all day, did you all choose your jobs individually, or is there some reason you ended up there? All hidden away in management with nothing to do, 'cause you can't give orders without a certain forehead's approval?"

Wes caught him in the eye, trying to figure out what provoked all this. "I have a great deal of responsibility. We've all been adjusting since..."

"Since you all decided on your free will to come here, or since the boss yelled 'Sell out!' and you lot went, 'How high?'"

Wesley held his gaze. "It's my decision to be here."

"You're a lucky one then," Spike quipped. "Now don't act like you're in such a rush to leave me. Not days ago it was all about the writing and questions and tell-me-more. I know you're bloody fascinated with me." He gave a deadpan, matter-of-fact look as Wesley continued to watch him, searching. "I understand, I have this effect on people. Angel's always been very threatened by it."

Wesley looked away on the last words as if a spell had been suddenly broken. "I won't get involved in this," he muttered. He got into an elevator, and Spike followed.

"In what? We were just having a nice talk."

Wesley was lost for a response, finally coming up with, "From everything I understand, nearly all your interaction was with Angelus before his soul was restored."

Spike looked honestly confused. "And? This bothers you why?"

"Well," Wesley lied, "it hardly seems fair. And especially since you're talking to your potential biographer. The other day I found some compelling passages on you from Spain in the early '20s. You don't want to be judged for your past, but you're still hostile about his?"

"Look at you," Spike chirped, "getting all defensive for him. You get an extra holiday bonus for that?" The elevator clicked down from 22 to 19 in silence. Spike looked put out. "Fine then. You were right. I'm very sorry. I forgot about the Sybil bit. An_gel_us was a complete bastard, alright? Needed to be in control all the time, never took advice. Excessive knowledge of torture. Bad hair. But that was a long, long time ago when his name had an extra syllable. This Angel fellow sounds like a class act. I'd be honored to know him." Wesley still didn't answer. Spike took a step closer. "And while we're on the subject, boo hoo about you being so tired. I sincerely apologize. 'Course I haven't slept since Sunnydale, but I don't get sleepy. And I haven't had a straight drink, but I don't want one. And I haven't gotten shagged in over a year, but I don't miss it at all. I'm startin' to forget how-"

The elevator opened. "Was there anything you wanted, Spike?" Wesley asked with a certain finality, before noticing for the first time that Spike was standing only inches away from him now.

"D'ya know what I want? Wesley?" he enunciated softly. "I want..." he trailed off, an idea sparkling in his eyes. "Do you smoke?"

Wesley shook his head slowly. When did that come up?

"So, you don't know that little... twitch your fingers do, when you need it?" He gently ran his hand up to Wesley's like he meant to hold it, only to let it float through his fingers like air. Wes's breath caught in his throat. "By the way, what's that like for you? I'm supposed to be... giving off heat or something, right?"

He was, just barely. A subtle warm breeze, a change in air pressure. And it did, in fact, make Wes's fingers twitch, if only from surprise. "Spike-"

His voice became a low growl vibrating in Wesley's ear. "It's craving, they call it. The part I miss." His hand ran precariously over Wes's shoulder, across his chest, just deep enough through his clothing to tease a nipple. "It's in your fingers."

"I know what you're- oh- doing-" Wes arched his back against the wall. Let Spike think he was finally making something move.

"It's the fingers, or it's the knees, or it's the sound of blood, or the scent. And something inside you... you _feel_ it -" his body, his non-body, leaned into Wesley, triggering a deep sensation his stomach. "Here. And here." He pressed lower; Wesley moaned. "That first warm gasp of it. That _need_ for something, need so bad it _pains_ you."

"Yes," Wesley managed to say, in a voice he knew was too desperate for his own good.

"That's what people live for, kill for. Not the release. The thing that builds up from the inside until it has to get out." Spike looked at his face, longing and pitiful and real, and felt nothing but envy.

The elevator doors began to close again just as Spike backed off, seeming slightly amused when Wesley lunged for the button, snapping back into the world with a whimper and staggering outside.

"Have a nice night," he called out. "And just between you and the ghost, Percy? Angel wasn't gonna sleep with you either."


End file.
